


The Shape of Me Will Always Be You

by janescott



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Rating: NC17, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this sherlockbbc_fic kink meme prompt: "And I myself find it a very soothing atmosphere."</p><p>When the dullness of the world gets to be too much for Sherlock, he retreats to the Diogenes Club where Mycroft precedes to take him apart and put him back together. In. Complete. Silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shape of Me Will Always Be You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Облик мой навсегда — ты](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123423) by [Tjaren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjaren/pseuds/Tjaren)



> Beta'd by magenta
> 
> The original characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and these characters belong to the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffatt. I'm just playing with the paper dolls for a bit ;)

Sherlock stands outside the door of the club, his eyes closed. They flare open when the door suddenly swings to, and he can see the dim interior.

The steward at the door doesn’t say anything, just smiles in greeting and takes Sherlock’s coat, passing it off to another staff member before leading him down the hallway.

The Diogenes Club is silent as always; a heavy silence that’s somehow not weighted and - as always - Sherlock finds himself fascinated by the paradox. How can something so heavy not also be oppressive? It’s not though, and he feels lighter already, resisting the urge to let out a long, long breath.

This … _thing_ always comes on him slowly, and he never notices; never catches himself out until it feels like he’s dragging his very bones around.

The noise - the chatter - in his head; his own incessant soundtrack - is normally a welcome, familiar thing. He records and deletes ruthlessly, thinking of his brain like a supercomputer but even supercomputers have a limited capacity - their routers burn out, or their hard drive frazzles.

When he feels the weight in his bones, Sherlock knows it’s time. One text message, and everything falls into place.

The silent steward opens the door at the end of the gloomy hallway, and smiles as Sherlock slips past him, listening for the discreet click of the lock.

It’s a relatively plain room - a couple of fat leather chairs by a table in the corner; a wide sofa under the windows, where the curtains are pulled across; heavy velvet draping to the floor, which is covered in thick, silencing carpet.

There are bookshelves built in to two of the walls; and ostensibly, it’s a reading room.

For Sherlock, it’s his salvation.

Mycroft is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs stretched out in front of him. He’s discarded his suit jacket, but he’s still wearing his tie; undone a precise one button down from his long neck. The crease in his trousers is still sharp, even though it’s the tired, tail-end of a long summer’s day.

He’s reading, a slight frown of concentration. Sherlock glances at the cover and isn’t surprised to see that it’s Dickens. The sight of it - of Mycroft reading in the silence of the club - steadies him and he moves easily, folding himself quietly into the other chair, leaning back and closing his eyes.

He does let a breath out then; quietly but in the absolute silence of the room, it almost echoes in the corners.

He’s aware of Mycroft moving then; like the sound of Sherlock’s exhale is his signal. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock determines Mycroft’s quiet movements around the room - walking over to the bookcase, sliding the volume of Dickens carefully back into its place; over to the sofa … Sherlock opens his eyes and watches as Mycroft carefully unfolds a thick, plush blanket and lays it over the sofa, nearly covering it.

There’s a small table off to the side, with a locked drawer. Sherlock watches from half-lidded eyes as Mycroft unlocks the drawer and lies out what he’s going to need on the flat, dark-wood surface. It only takes a moment, but Sherlock shifts in the seat biting his lip as the leather creaks.

Mycroft looks at him then, his eyes steady and grave above tired shadows. But he smiles, and the smile is warm, and only exists for Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles back, and stands up; closing the space in a few long strides.

They stand for a moment, not touching; just … breathing. Sherlock can feel the surface of his mind calming like a frozen lake in the depths of winter. He focuses on the patch of skin revealed by Mycroft’s tie; the hollow between his collarbones. He reaches out, slowly, and strokes his thumb over it, fascinated by the slide of skin over skin.

Mycroft takes his hand, turns it and plants a kiss in the centre of the palm. Sherlock sways a little then, half-closing his eyes like he’s just come to the comfort of home at the end of a long, long journey. Mycroft leans forward and plants another small kiss at the corner of his mouth, his lips closed and dry.

Sherlock drops his arms to his sides, feeling the weight leaving his bones slowly.

He stands passively as Mycroft undresses him methodically and tidily, folding his clothes on one of the armchairs, putting his shoes and socks neatly on the floor.

Sherlock lies down on the sofa, stretching out on the soft fabric of the blanket stretching out his legs, then his arms above his head, watching as Mycroft strips his own clothes off with economical efficiency.

Once they’re folded and tidy, he comes and stands by the sofa, looking down at his brother.

Sherlock reaches out a hand, and as Mycroft’s fingers tangle with his own, pulls until Mycroft is lying down with him. Their limbs tangle together; sense-memory making them fit and slot together.

Mycroft kisses him properly for the first time, his mouth warm and insistent, his tongue pressing in. Mycroft tastes like tea and warmth and silence and Sherlock sighs, as his muscles give way to the slack of the sofa underneath him, and to the press of Mycroft above and around him.

He rests his hands on Mycroft’s shoulder blades, fanning his fingers out and feeling the shape of the bones moving under his hands. Everything is uncurling, uncoiling inside his head; in the feel of Mycroft under his hands and the breath-stealing kisses that he responds to like a thirsty man at the edge of an oasis in the desert.

There’s no sound in the room apart from their own breathing, laboured but hushed and it makes Sherlock think - absurdly - of making love in a church. He pushes the thought down as Mycroft stretches out to retrieve the small bottle he’d taken out of the locked drawer earlier.

He drops it on the sofa as Sherlock rises up to claim his mouth again; feeling _greedy_ all of a sudden, and not able to express why, apart from digging his fingers into Mycroft’s bones, the shape of them rising up in sharp relief, and biting down on his bottom lip.

Mycroft pushes Sherlock back on to the sofa, soothing him with long strokes of his hands down his sides and small kisses over his face and neck, patient and methodical, until Sherlock subsides, feeling the same light passivity stealing into his mind and body again.

He shifts to accommodate as Mycroft begins to use his fingers; stroking and teasing as Sherlock spreads his legs open in silent invitation. The sofa is wide enough for him to sprawl out comfortably, one arm dangling towards the floor, the other still on Mycroft’s back; his fingers tracing the movement of Mycroft’s bones and muscles as he opens Sherlock up slowly; flexing his fingers, slick and cool but warming rapidly against the friction of Sherlock’s small rolls of his hips that he’s nearly unaware of.

Sherlock arches his neck and bites his lip when Mycroft presses against his prostate at the same time as his teeth scrape over the tendon standing out in relief from Sherlock’s neck.

He wants to move, to fuck himself down on to Mycroft’s teasing fingers until he comes just from that; he wants to scream and shout; hear his voice echoing around the silent room and it’s _too much_ ; suddenly.

He gasps, needing air in his burning lungs, and Mycroft is right there, free hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair, tugging at the thick black mess of it, even as he moves again, slipping his fingers out and lining up, pressing in slowly. His thick length distracts even Sherlock from himself and he grasps at Mycroft’s hips with both hands, pulling at him, needing _more_.

Mycroft soothes him down again with his hands and his mouth; nipping little red marks under his collarbones where they won’t be seen until Sherlock’s quiet; his hands relaxed on Mycroft’s back, his own need present, but a secondary thought until Mycroft bites down on the soft juncture between neck and shoulder and he’s coming; shaking under Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock follows soon after, Mycroft’s hand wrapped around him, pulling this out of him as easily as he puts the silence that Sherlock so badly needs back into him.

They lie, still tangled on the sofa for a while, covered by a fold of blanket, letting their hands roam; their silent mouths say what they can never say to each other out in the world; in the noise.

Mycroft cleans everything up, and dresses Sherlock again, even going so far as to tie his shoelaces.

They stand in the silent room, foreheads pressed together; eyes closed; just breathing.

Sherlock listens, but everything is silence.


End file.
